“I would have crushed that damn cigar in his lettuce,” Amanda ripped. She was walking in circles around the table.
“My guess is that Belle handled it like a reporter, like you presented it as thoughts that maybe other women had, maybe like they were thoughts that you didn’t share,” Violette said. “That way you managed to protect yourself as always.”
“Why do you dislike me so much?” I asked Violette. “Those women sat like statues. Like they didn’t even know how I got to the table. They acted like I was a freak.”
My hands were shaking.
Amy stood. “This was such a stupid idea in the first place. I’m going back to work.”
The other two followed close behind. I just sat staring into space, wondering how I should tell this story to Bruce. How could I have done anything differently?
Clarisse poked her twitchy face into the room. “Heard you’re getting all antiestablishment on us?”
I rolled my eyes at her.
“Thanks for leaving more room at the top for me, Belle,” she gushed, and she really meant it.
That afternoon what would be the final Metis memo arrived:
To: All Employees
From: Metis
Subject: White Flag
I’m done warning you people. You seem to want to continue on this miserable path. You don’t ever want to move forward. You’ve made your beds so go sleep on them. Enjoy your unflippable mattress.
Stone left a yellow Post-it on my screen. “Did you get writer’s cramp? Did you girls break up?”
I’d never met such an entitled empty suit in my life, a kid who just seems itching to be fired.
“Stone, very glad you signed this thing. It’s going in my memory book. The one I use when your next employer calls for a recommendation.”
He smirked and pulled up his Facebook page, posting something that undoubtedly pertains to me. I’ve heard he does this regularly.
When I tried to thank Lisa for allying herself with me at the Gruss lunch, she acted indifferent, as though she couldn’t remember it ever happening, and when I relayed the details of the lunch to Bruce, he looked at me with something bordering on contempt. He’s suddenly so removed again and I can’t help but think that I’ve let him down too.
A few days after the lunch some of the attendees sent me emails that could almost be considered supportive. While they never apologized for not speaking up or adding anything at all to the conversation, they thanked me for saying what I did. As one put it, “Thanks for putting into words what we all think and experience, yet never say.” She sent it from an untraceable IP address and I was too angry to respond.
I forwarded it to the GCC and it was finally Amy who replied all, “Enough with this stuff. It’s time we all get back to our jobs. Take me off this email list.” In just a few moments everyone else had done the same. The club I had been practically begged to join dumped me. I’m so exposed now and want to see this thing through. I’m fully out of ideas and very much alone.
CHAPTER 27
Standard Deviation
THIS AFTERNOON, the noise from the dais sounds like a World Cup soccer match, and it is distracting the whole trading floor. A young trader has returned from Europe bearing the spoils of a scavenger hunt. He had been given forty-eight hours to find the items on the list, many of which were found on another continent. From the noise level it seems he has been successful. He enters, victorious and dragging behind him a wheelie bag containing what promises to be a corpse, but is instead a collection of the world’s most noted performance enhancers—not trading performance but vitality-in-the-sack performance. This trader they call New Guy gets a full standing ovation. He’s all of twenty-two, blushing a scarlet hue but filled with bravado. The guys have a folding table snapped open right in front of the dais. A tablecloth is handed to New Guy, which he brandishes like a matador before carefully placing it on the table. The traders keep cheering as he unzips the bag.
I type an email to Amy with the exact wording from the Merrill Lynch lawsuit.
“?‘Environment that is hostile and offensive.’ Is this offensive enough for you?”